Appreciation of foreign fairy tales "[UK] Philippa Pearce Tom's Midnight Garden (Excerpt)" [UK] Philippa Pearce Chapter 3 It is indeed like this under the moonlight: She left, but she did not enter through the door

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She just slowly became lighter and disappeared.

This is a real adventure.

Tom put on his bedroom slippers and considered not wearing his dressing gown, it was still summer after all.

He carefully closed the bedroom door gently behind him so it wouldn't slam on him on his way out.

When he reached the front door of the suite, he took off one of his slippers and placed it beside the door frame. When he closed the door, he pressed it against the slipper like a wedge.

That way, when he comes back, the door will still be open.

The lights on the landing and downstairs hall were switched off, for the lodgers had gone to bed and Mrs. Bartholomew had fallen asleep.

The only light was a slanting moonlight coming from the long window in the middle of the stairs.

Tom groped his way downstairs and into the hall.

Then he stopped.

He could see the grandfather clock—a tall, dark shadow standing in the darkness—but he couldn't see the time on the dial.

If he could open the plate cover and touch the position of the pointer with his hand, his touch would tell him the time on the clock.

He touched this side of the lid and then the other side of the lid. He couldn't find the hook and couldn't open it.

He remembered that on the first day he had tried to open the door of the pendulum box without success.

They must have been locked.

Come on! Come on! The house seemed to whisper around him.

The minutes passed...and passed...Tom stepped away from the clock and groped for the light switch.

Where? He ran his fingers over the wall and found nothing: No, nowhere.

Light - light: What he needs is light! And the only light is the moonlight, which shines in slantingly from the window on the stairs and is wasted on the wall next to the window sill.

Tom studied the moonlight carefully, and an idea slowly formed in his mind.

Based on the direction of the moonlight, he saw that the bright moon must be behind the house.

That would be nice, if he would open the door at the end of the hall, at the back of the house, and let the moonlight in.

If he was lucky, he might be able to see the time on the clock clearly in the moonlight.

He walked toward the door at the end of the hall.

He had never seen this door open before—the Kitsons came and went through the front door.

They said that the door at the back could lead to the alley, but it was inconvenient and had to go through a backyard - a long open space with garbage bins, and the tenants who lived in the suite behind the ground floor still left them

The car was parked here, covered with a tarpaulin.

Tom had never had a chance to use the door and had no idea how secure it was at night.

If it was locked, the key must be hidden somewhere... I didn't expect it to be unlocked, just bolted.

Tom pulled out the latch and turned the doorknob slowly and silently.

Hurry! the house whispered.

The grandfather clock in the center of the house rang anxiously: tick, tick, tick.

Tom opened the door wide, letting in the moonlight.

The moonlight came in all of a sudden, so bright and bright, like the bright white light in the morning when the sun has not fully risen.

The light was ideal, but Tom did not immediately turn his head to look at the time displayed on the clock dial, but took another step towards the door.

He stared blankly at the scenery outside, first surprised, then angry.

They deceived him like this - lied to him! They said, "Tom, you don't have to go up in the back." They described it nonchalantly: "It's just a dirty backyard with trash cans. There's really not much to see."

"There's not much to see... not at all: a large open lawn, many flower beds; a towering fir tree, and those dense and solemn yew trees arranged in various shapes on both sides of the lawn; on the lawn

To the right of the third side was a conservatory, almost as big as a real house; and at each corner of the lawn a path wound its way to some deeper part of the garden, where other trees grew.

Tom had just instinctively taken a few steps forward, holding his breath in surprise.

At this time, with a sigh, he spit out the breath.

He will sneak up here tomorrow during the day.

They tried to hide it from him, but now they couldn't stop him - not his aunt, not his uncle, not the tenants in the back suite, not even the eccentric Mrs. Bartholomew.

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He would run across the meadows and jump over the flowerbeds; he would look through the shining windows of the conservatory—perhaps even open the door and go in; he would visit every pruning of the yew trees.

Every recess, every arch—he would climb into the trees, climbing from tree to tree among the thick, tangled branches.

When they called him, he would hide quietly in the leafy trees, as safe as a bird.